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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26159311">Intertwined</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothjons/pseuds/mothjons'>mothjons</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>TMA hurt/comfort week 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Hugging, Hurt/Comfort, Jon's childhood, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Touch, prompts: childhood and calm, touch starved</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:02:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>841</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26159311</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothjons/pseuds/mothjons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody touched Jon.<br/>And then Martin happened.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>TMA hurt/comfort week 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896007</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>309</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Intertwined</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For TMA hurt/Comfort week, for the prompts "childhood" and "calm"</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>People hadn’t touched Jon growing up.</p><p>His grandmother had been a cold woman, reluctant to thaw to show Jon some affection. She never tucked him in, nor kissed his head good night. When he fell down, she never ran her hands down his back and whispered soothing affirmations.</p><p>Jon hadn’t even known it was odd until he had caught a glimpse of a family in the park, one Summer in Bournemouth. It had been a mother and father, and two children – one looking to be around Jon’s age, the other just leaving their toddler years behind. The parents had laughed with their children, wrapping their arms around them and scooping them up into easy embraces.</p><p>It had struck Jon in that moment, how much he desired to be held – to be loved like that. He tried to hug his grandmother, to squeeze her hand on walks, or offer to plait her hair when the shaking got bad. She replied in kind with scowls, and sharp withdrawals – pulling herself into herself, so that there was nothing left of her for Jon to hold. Jon used to think that she would rather cut her own hand off than allow Jon to hold it.</p><p>Jon learnt quickly that people didn’t touch him.</p><p>And then Martin happened.</p><p>How – Jon would never know; even with the ability to Know anything, Jon could never understand how or why Martin loved him. But he did, and he did it as easily as breathing – in the soft words of comfort, in the way his arms would wrap around Jon’s waist, head dropping into the crook of his neck. He loved Jon in the kisses he placed along his jaw, moving up slowly towards his lips. He loved him in the way he cupped Jon’s face, and held him close.</p><p>The first time Martin had touched Jon was in the storage room, with Prentiss prowling outside, and an intense fear of looming death. The touch had been small, a nudge – if anything. The pounding at the wall had come, and Martin’s hand had reached out, cupping Jon’s elbow and pulling him back towards him.</p><p>In hindsight, with all that had been happening, it made no sense for Jon’s brain to latch onto that sensation. Through the pounding adrenaline in his veins, that gentle touch shouldn’t have broken through – but it did, and Jon found himself cupping that part of his arm the whole way through the tunnels. It was almost as if he had been applying pressure to a wound, desperate to stop the seeping warmth that spread like a bloodstain.</p><p>The second time he had touched Jon was directly after the Prentis incident – a weeping moment from Martin, who had grasped Jon’s hand with force and sobbed an apology into it. Jon’s senses had been overcome, to the point where he had almost been unable to speak.</p><p>People didn’t touch Jon. This wasn’t right, it was wrong – it was nice. It was nice. It was nice, so it was wrong.</p><p>After that, Martin touched Jon more – small, subtle touches that were, for the most part, accidental slips that sent fire through Jon’s veins. Fingers grazed over the passing of mugs, and files, and tapes. Martin never acknowledged it, and neither did Jon – what would be the point?</p><p>Each touch felt like a hit that had Jon craving it more and more. The slips of fingers soon waned their power, and no longer soothed that itch to be touched, to be held. He wanted the moments to last, he wanted more and he wanted Martin.</p><p>He wanted Martin.</p><p>That realisation was as terrifying as any eldritch power – but it was a good fear. It was almost a gentle fear, and it was human, and it was his.</p><p>When Jon had touched Martin after the Lonely, he was ice cold. Jon had wrapped his body around him, held him tight, and whispered that he loved him. Slowly, Martin’s limbs had cracked into place, each joint thawing into motion, and the second Jon felt Martin’s hands on his back – he almost wept.</p><p>It felt as gentle as that first touch in the storage room, but that finger print of warmth that Martin had left on him now flowed through his whole body. Jon pressed that warmth back into Martin, melting the last of the Lonely away from him.</p><p>Now, Martin held him on the porch of the cottage, overlooking the rolling black clouds that swirled over the Glens and Beinns of the Highlands. Behind them, through the open windows in the cottage, music could be heard – some nondescript radio station, one of the few they could get signal for. A blanket was drawn around the two, barely wide enough to encompass their frames. It was a ratty, tartan woollen thing, with scratchy fibres that tickled Jon’s noise. But the fabric bracketed them together, and for that, Jon couldn’t find it in him to find fault.</p><p>Maybe Jon would never know, or Know, why Martin loved him – but maybe he didn’t have to.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kudos and comments give me life!!! I'm on tumblr @mothjons</p></blockquote></div></div>
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